


gotta get away from here

by Emma Grant (emmagrant01)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bisexual Jack, Blow Jobs, Casual Sex, Coming Out, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, In-Universe RPF, M/M, Pining, Providence Falconers, awkward boys, no Bitty in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 21:29:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14679860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmagrant01/pseuds/Emma%20Grant
Summary: The man in front of him is taller than Jack, and probably twenty pounds lighter too. “I am Alexei,” he says, “but guys call me Tater, okay?” Tater’s grin is infectious and his eyes are bright, and the hand that squeezes Jack’s shoulder is big and warm. Jack recognizes the feeling that sweeps through him at that touch, and. Shit. It’s only been two minutes, and Jack is so, so fucked.





	gotta get away from here

**Author's Note:**

> About a year ago, there was a challenge to write in-universe hockey RPF for Check Please. I dashed this out in about a day, then posted it under another name un-betaed. I pulled it down a couple of months later with the intention of fixing it up and reposting it. It took a little longer than expected, but here it is!
> 
> So, **please note that this is written as if by a person who exists in the Check Please universe**. In other words, this is intended to be hockey rpf written by a fictional Providence Falconers fan, and written well before the Stanley Cup kiss, so it’s all extrapolated characterizations, based on what I think fans in that universe would actually know about Jack. So it’s pretty meta, as fics go? 
> 
> Tl;dr: These may not be the droids you’re looking for.
> 
> I should also say that I am a huge fan of hockey rpf, so this is intended to be a loving tribute to the genre. <3
> 
> Thank you to DrinkingCocoa, Nautilicious, and Esterbrook for their very helpful comments on an earlier draft of this story!

_Posted to the Archive on December 17, 2015, as part of the Potatomann Holiday Exchange, as a gift for zimmysgirl69, by Falcs5eva_

**_Author's Notes:_**  
Surprise, zimmysgirl69! I blame you for my life-ruining obsession with our newest fledgling, and I'm not even mad about it because he's just so beautiful and amazing? This is my first fic for this ship, and I hope I did them justice. All for you BB!!!

Thanks to the gang on Twitter for their encouragement and holding my hand through this one! Title from Sign of the Times by Harry Styles. 

This is obviously a work of fiction, and I’m not claiming any of this really happened. I don’t know any of the people involved in real life. More notes at the end.

If you found this story by googling yourself or someone you know, do us both a favor and hit the back button now. You really don’t want to read this...

*****

It’s not like Jack doesn’t get it. He’s been around the league his entire life, and he knows. He _knows_.

The man in front of him is taller than Jack, and probably twenty pounds lighter too. “I am Alexei,” he says, “but guys call me Tater, okay?” Tater’s grin is infectious and his eyes are bright, and the hand that squeezes Jack’s shoulder is big and warm. Jack recognizes the feeling that sweeps through him at that touch, and. Shit.

It’s only been two minutes, and Jack is so, so fucked.

*

It’s not a thing. It’s just. Tater is enthusiastic, right? And he’s tall and gangly, not Jack’s usual type at all, but. _But_. Exceptions can be made, especially when Tater does things like brush his shoulder against Jack’s every time he’s in range, and give him these small, secret smiles that make something flutter in Jack’s chest. He’s so goddamned adorable, and everyone loves him. You can’t help but be drawn in and that’s, that’s not a thing.

*

It’s totally a thing.

But look, he’s not doing this, okay? It’s the first day of training camp, and though Jack’s pretty sure he’s going to make the roster, he’s still got a fuckton of work to do. The NHL is worlds apart from the NCAA, as his dad keeps telling him, as every person he’s met lately wants to explain, like he’s completely unaware or something. He knows he’s got to level up. He hasn’t got time for stupid crushes on teammates, no matter how overgrown-puppy-like they are.

“Zimmboni!” Said overgrown puppy crashes into Jack from behind at the end of the first practice, then wraps an arm around his shoulders. 

“Hey, Tater.” Jack’s face heats at the nickname. Tater’s the only one using it so far; the rest of the guys seem like they’re keeping their distance for now. 

Tater pats Jack’s shoulder enthusiastically. “Good skate today. Snowy look so scared on that last shot, right? Top shelf! So hard.”

“Haha, yeah.” Jack’s pretty sure his cheeks are glowing. 

“I tell Coach, put us on same line. Like magic.”

“Magic,” Jack repeats, stupidly. 

Tater grins at him and skates over to where some of the vets are standing, knocking a puck back and forth while they talk. Jack lets his gaze follow for a moment, then forces himself to look away. 

That afternoon, Coach does try them on a line together, Jack at center, with Tater on his right and Thirdy on his left, and it’s. Well, _magic_ isn’t an exaggeration. It’s only been a day and the chemistry is already falling into place.

It’s good hockey, and that’s the important thing. Jack pushes everything else far, far down.

*

They win their first preseason game against the Red Wings on a sweet goal at the end of the third. Tater snags the rebound off of Mrazek’s stick and drops it back, not even looking, but still knowing Jack’s going to be there. Jack is, and he one-times it, watches it sail right in, high glove-side. Technically, it’s not his first NHL goal, but the team piles on him like it is.

Tater wraps his arms around Jack’s shoulders, his face radiant as he shouts “Zimmboni!” over the roar of the home crowd. He plants a wet kiss on Jack’s cheek, then grins before he skates away. Jack wipes his cheek with the back of his glove, shaking his head, and heads over to the bench for fist bumps from the rest of the team.

It feels good to produce, even if this game doesn’t count. 

They go out for drinks after, to a dive bar that the vets seem to know well. Everyone wants to buy Jack a shot or a beer, even though they have to know he doesn’t do that shit much — not with his history. He gets it though, that it’s about team bonding, so he does one shot, then nurses a beer for the next hour. Right now he’s trapped in a booth with Tater practically glued to his side, all long limbs and warmth through the thin fabric of his summer suit, and Jack’s just. It’s a lot.

So, like. He has a stupid crush on his teammate. Tater is just being Tater, and Jack isn’t going to read into the way he leans against Jack a little more with every drink. Or the way he slides an arm around Jack in the booth and practically brushes his lips against Jack’s ear when he tries to make himself heard over the noise, breath hot and damp against Jack’s neck, and _fuck_. 

“I’m gonna,” Jack says, and makes a gesture toward the bathrooms. The guys let him up and he winds his way through the crowd. He splashes water on his face and stares at himself in the mirror for an entire minute before he goes back out. 

There’s a girl leaning against the wall outside the door, and she looks up when he opens it. She smiles at him in a way that’s all too familiar, and he pauses, smiling back. She’s basically exactly what he likes in girls: small and blonde with big brown eyes, athletic build, not super skinny. She’s wearing a short skirt and a low-cut shirt, and from the way her eyes light up, he’s pretty sure she came here tonight looking for him.

He leans against the wall beside her and says, “Hi.”

Her name is Ashley and she’s a nursing student. She bites her lip and puts a manicured hand on his arm, and asks him if he wants to get out of there. 

He guides her toward the door of the bar with a hand on the small of her back, ignoring the round of whoops from the guys. He looks back once, but Tater is deep in conversation with Marty, and he doesn’t seem to notice Jack’s leaving.

He takes Ashley back to the hotel where they’re housing the guys not yet on the roster. She’s enthusiastic and sexy, and though she’s not exactly what he wants right now, he can appreciate what she’s offering. He eats her out until she comes, then fucks her from behind until she comes again, and tries not to think about the body he wishes was under him.

She doesn’t hang around long after, which he appreciates. He doesn’t like having to kick someone out after. It’s better when they get what the deal is. 

*

Tater sits next to him on the plane the next day, all smiles. “Zimmboni! You don’t say goodbye last night.”

“Sorry,” Jack says. “I, uh…” He hesitates to explain, and he’s not sure why.

“Is good, Zimmboni get laid, score more in next game, right?” 

Jack blinks at him. “Yeah, for sure.”

Tater laughs and settles back in his seat.

Jack turns to look at the window. Tater wasn’t bothered in the slightest, which. That’s good, right? He’s either completely straight or not interested in Jack like that, which means Jack can move on. Just, like let it go. 

Right.

He fucked around some in college, with guys and girls. It was easy then and it’s even easier now; there’s always someone messaging him on Insta and checking him out in a bar. He’s more careful about hooking up with guys these days, though. He was careful at Samwell too, and though most of the guys on the team there knew he swung both ways, they also understood that he needed to keep it on the DL. It was never anything serious, because hockey always came first, but he didn’t deny himself either.

Hockey still comes first, of course. The NHL has been his dream since he first wobbled on skates, clinging to his dad’s hand. He’s not going to throw any of that away for a stupid crush on someone who isn’t even interested in him. Especially not a teammate.

He learned that lesson years ago, the hard way.

*

The season starts, and Jack keeps scoring. Ten games in, he’s in the top ten of the whole league, not just the rookies, and people are already whispering about the Calder. His dad keeps posting embarrassing praise on twitter, and his jersey sells so fast the arena can barely keep them in stock. 

Everything’s great, really, a perfect start to his rookie season — except for the fact that his stupid crush on Tater doesn’t go away. 

Tater decides they’re best friends before the season even starts. He sits next to Jack at every team meal, at every meeting, on every plane and bus ride. He talks Jack’s ears off and falls asleep on his shoulder, and Jack tries not to feel like a perv when he watches Tater sleep, eyelashes dark against his cheeks.

Jack’s teammates from Samwell come to a game, and it’s awesome. He loves the Falcs, knows how lucky he is to be here, but he also misses the easy camaraderie of his college team. He knew who he was at Samwell and where he was going. Now that he’s gotten here, he wishes he’d enjoyed it more, back at school. 

One thing that’s changed, though, is that he’s got his own place, an apartment in a trendy neighborhood with a view of the water. He feels like a grownup in a way he hasn’t before, and it’s good. 

Life is good and hockey is great, and his dreams are coming true. He can’t complain.

But when Tater invites himself over to play pool or watch a movie, and stretches out on Jack’s couch with his feet in Jack’s lap, Jack kind of hates his life.

*

October is gone, then November, and before he knows it, they’re in that long slog until the Christmas break. It’s weird to think that this time last year, he was writing papers and studying for finals. All of that seems like a lifetime ago now — time passes differently without the familiar rhythm of the academic year. 

They head out on a two-week-long west coast road trip, starting in Vancouver and working their way down to LA. They pick up wins in Vancouver and Seattle, then drop games in San Jose and Anaheim. The Anaheim loss happens in a shootout, which sucks, and leaves them all feeling bitter and restless. The younger guys gather in the hotel bar after that one, too wired to sleep. They play the Kings in two days, so they aren’t even changing hotels. It’s kind of nice to have that tiny bit of consistency in the middle of a roadie like this. 

The hotel is full of business travelers, and the bar is hopping for so late on a Tuesday night. Jack is in a booth, pressed up against Tater as usual, when Poots leans across the table to grin at him.

“Bruh, that dude at the bar is totally checking you out.”

They all look over, which is such a noob move, but whatever. There is a guy there, and he’s watching them all with interest. He grins and turns back to his drink, takes a sip. 

“He probably just recognizes us,” Jack says.

The guy looks over again half a minute later, and his eyes meet Jack’s. He settles back a little in the barstool, practically posing, and… okay, Jack can’t really deny what it looks like.

Poots leers at Jack. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you can get his number.”

Jack blinks at him, shocked. “What?”

“Bro,” Simmy says, gaping at Poots. “What the fuck?”

Jack looks back at Poots, eyes narrowing. He knows there’s been talk about him for years, gossip about him and Parse from back in the Q. Gossip that’s probably _true_ , but they don’t know that. 

“I’m just sayin’,” Poots says, a glint in his eyes now. “Dude looks interested, and Jack here’s pretty enough to pull it off.”

“Wait,” Simmy says, “You seriously want Jack — _Jack Zimmermann_ — to go hit on that dude and get his number?”

“Yeah,” Poots says, like it’s a perfectly reasonable thing to do. 

“And then what?”

“Fuck, bro, I don’t know. It’s not like Jack’s gonna do anything with it.” He drains his beer glass, then reaches for the pitcher. 

Simmy’s still frowning. “Isn’t that kind of a dick move? Like, hitting on somebody when you don’t mean it?”

“No,” Poots replies, with a clear tone of _duh_. “It’s not like Zimmboni’s actually gonna pick the guy up.”

_Well_. Jack is honestly amazed he’s been able to keep his own expression neutral this whole time. 

He’s pretty sure they don’t, like, _know_. He’s never talked about it with any of these guys, and other than that seminar back in training camp about not using offensive language — which the rest of league needs to sit though, judging by the comments Jack regularly gets on the ice — it hasn’t come up. He hasn’t really been completely in the closet for years, and he hasn’t made his male hookups sign NDAs or anything, but he’s not putting a bi flag up in his stall either. He’s feeling comfortable enough with this team now that he wouldn’t mind if some of them knew. It doesn’t seem like as big of a deal now that he knows them all, knows they’re not assholes.

Asking a guy for his number on a dare seems harmless enough. It might be a way to test the waters a little, ease the guys into the idea that Jack hooks up with dudes every now and then, no biggie. 

“Guys,” Tater says, frowning. He stares down into his drink, his eyes narrowed, and something in his expression makes Jack’s stomach sink. 

If Tater has a problem with it… well. Best to find out sooner than later. 

Jack turns to Poots and smirks. “A hundred? Done.” 

He knocks back the rest of his drink, then stands and crosses to the bar. The guys whisper furiously behind him, but he ignores them. He leans against the bar and waves a finger at the bartender, who nods. Jack waits for a count of three, then turns to look at the guy.

He’s about Jack’s age, maybe a little older. He’s wearing a suit and tie, like everyone else in the place, and his hair is on point. He’s cute in a sculpted, California kind of way.

“Hey,” Jack says, smiling at him.

“Hi.” The guy turns, his smile widening as he does. “You here for the conference?”

Jack laughs. “No.”

“Me either,” the guys says. “Some kind of sales conference, apparently. I tried to talk to a couple of those guys earlier tonight and was bored out of my damn mind.” He lets his gaze trail down to Jack’s hands and back up again. “Something tells me you’re a lot more interesting, though.”

“I can be.” Jack glances over to where the bartender is still working, muddling mint for a mojito. “Can I get you a drink?”

They talk for a while, and it’s actually more fun than Jack expected. The guy’s name is Braden (”with an _e_ ”), and he’s from San Diego. He’s here for a meeting of some sort, and tomorrow he’s flying on to Portland. His eyes are warm and brown, and he’s got a wicked sense of humor.

They linger over their drinks, and before Jack knows it, they’ve spent twenty minutes talking. He glances over his shoulder toward the table where the guys are sitting. They aren’t even watching now, apparently having grown bored of the game

“So, uh…” Braden says, and Jack turns back to him. “I think I’m gonna turn in, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Braden’s not making any move to get up and go, though. Jack’s pretty sure he’s reading this right.

He lets himself pout a little. “I know you’re leaving tomorrow, so is it pointless to ask for your number?”

Braden’s smile goes sly. He pulls a business card out of his wallet, then picks up a pen off the bar and scribbles something on the back. He hands the card to Jack. On the front are his full name and title, plus his email and phone numbers. 

Jack flips it over, then glances back up at him. “1043?”

“My room number, if you’re interested in dropping by later.” Braden bites his lower lip.

“1043,” Jack repeats, smiling. “I need to close my tab with my buddies, but I might stop by later and say goodnight.”

Braden lets his tongue dart out to wet his lower lip. “I hope you do, Jack.”

Jack heads back to the table, where the guys are all sitting and staring at him with expressions ranging from shock to glee. 

“Did you get it?” Poots asks, grinning.

Jack holds up the card so they can see the front. “Pay up, Poots.”

“Bro,” Poots says with a laugh, and reaches for his wallet. 

“You spent long enough working for it,” Simmy says. “Like, what did you even talk to him about?”

“Ah, you know.” Jack pockets the card along with the bill Poots hands over. “What he does, where he’s from, what he’s into. The usual.”

“You should text him,” Poots says, grinning awfully wide for someone who just lost a bet. “He was totally into you. Bet you could get a blowie out of it.”

Jack rolls his eyes and tries to will himself not to blush. That is the actual plan, not that anyone else needs to know it. “Whatever. I’m heading up now.”

“Suuuure you are,” Poots says, elbowing Tater. 

Jack flips him off and turns to go. Simmy says something low that Jack can’t hear, and Poots snickers. Jack glances over his shoulder at them, but all he can see is the expression of genuine dismay on Tater’s face.

Jack doesn’t let himself think about that. He doesn’t think about it as he rides the elevator up to the tenth floor, and he doesn’t think about it when he heads down the hall and knocks on the door of 1043. 

Braden opens the door and smiles at him. He’s somehow hotter than Jack realized downstairs in the bar. He’s a couple of inches shorter than Jack, and he clearly spends hours a day working out because he’s utterly cut. He’s enthusiastic too, dropping to his knees after just a minute of kissing and pushing Jack back against the wall. His full lips look amazing stretched around Jack’s cock, and he doesn’t mind when Jack threads fingers in his hair and fucks his mouth. Jack warns him when he’s close, and Braden pulls back, jerks him off until Jack comes on his face, which. Yeah, that’s hot. He’s not gonna lie.

He pushes Braden on to the bed and returns the favor, one arm pressed across Braden’s hips to hold him still. He lets Braden come in his mouth, then spits into a tissue from the box on the nightstand.

“God _damn_ ,” Braden says, flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling. 

Jack fastens his pants and stands. “Thanks.” There’s not really a nice way to say, _now that I’ve come, it’s time for me to go_ , but Braden seems to know the deal. He scrubs his hands over his face, then looks up at Jack with a loopy sort of smile. 

“If you’re ever in San Diego, bro, text me. I’d be down for whatever.” He’s given no indication that he knows who Jack is, which. It’s good to be on the west coast sometimes.

“Yeah, okay.” Jack leans over the bed and lets Braden pull him into a kiss.

“You’re so fuckin’ hot,” Braden says, flopping back against the pillow. “I’m gonna be jerking off to this for weeks.”

Jack grins and shoves his feet back in his shoes. He could honestly say the same. “Good night, Braden.” 

He glances both ways down the hall before walking out, though he’s pretty sure none of the team is on this floor. 

He makes it back to his room without seeing anyone else, which is a relief. He’s pretty sure Poots would chirp him for _weeks_ if he thought Jack hadn’t gone straight back to his room. 

Jack strips and brushes his teeth, and sleeps harder than he has in a long time.

At breakfast the next morning, Poots gives him a long look, like he’s suspicious. Jack just smiles at him innocently, and keeps filling his plate. He sits next to Tater, as usual. Tater stiffens visibly next to him when he sits, and doesn’t turn to look at Jack.

“Morning,” Jack says, trying for _nothing is out of the ordinary at all_ and probably missing it by a mile.

Tater nods and shoves a forkful of eggs into his mouth, He keeps eating like that, choking down his food, and as soon as he’s finished, he leaves. Jack stares down at his food, his stomach churning. 

Well, shit.

The day goes on, and while Tater doesn’t exactly avoid Jack, he’s not as exuberant as usual. He doesn’t spend most of his time hanging on Jack like he usually does, and every time Jack catches his eye, Tater looks away again. 

By practice that afternoon, Jack has gone from confused and hurt to pissed. Tater seems off, unfocused, unable to come within ten feet of Jack on the ice, and that. Like, it’s one thing for a dude to have a problem with the (slightest hint of a) gay thing, but it’s another to let it affect hockey. Hockey is fucking sacrosanct, and if it’s messing with Tater’s hockey, it’s a big fucking deal.

He watches Tater ignore him in the dressing room, pass by him on the bus back to the hotel, eyes cast down. Jack glances across the aisle to see Poots giving him a questioning look. Jack shrugs in response and turns to look out the window. 

They can’t keep going like this, obviously, and it looks like Jack is the one who’s going to have to sack up and say something. 

They’re released for the evening, most guys making plans to hang out in each other’s rooms and play cards and shit. Jack begs off the invitations, saying he’s got video to watch, then goes to his room and sits on the end of his bed until his stomach stops churning. It’s not going to be fun, but he’s just got to do it. He’s going to walk down the hall and knock on Tater’s door, and they’re going to talk this shit out, like grown-ass adults.

He takes a deep breath, crosses to the door, and opens it.

Tater is standing there, one fist raised like he was about to knock. He blinks at Jack for a moment, then moves that hand to scratch awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Hi.”

All the words Jack had planned to say go flying out of his head. He stares back at Tater for three full seconds before coming to his senses and taking a step back. He gestures for Tater to come in.

Tater exhales smoothly, like he’s nervous or relieved, or maybe both, but he walks through the door.

Jack closes it behind him and turns to look at him. He’s standing in the middle of the room, lower lip caught between his teeth, and staring down at the bed. 

“So,” Jack prompts.

Tater seems to steel himself before turning towards Jack. His gaze is focused on the floor, though, like he can’t even look Jack in the eye, which. Seriously, fuck this. 

“What,” Jack says flatly, frustration leaking out now. Tater finally looks up, blinks at him, and Jack sighs and goes to sit on the bed. “Fine, I’ll just… I’m just gonna ask. Do you have a problem with me being… not straight?”

Tater purses his lips, hesitating, and Jack feels a raw heat crawl up the back of his neck. “No, I’m… I just… I’m being confused about the bar guy, so—” 

“He asked me to come up to his room, okay? We sucked each other’s dicks, and then I left. If you’ve got a problem with that, then I’m sorry, but like, whatever.” Jack sees Tater’s eyes go wide and his cheeks flush red, and… okay, maybe that was more than Jack should’ve said. 

“I’m not having problem,” Tater says after a moment. “I’m not knowing, I guess? I am… is not what I’m expecting.”

“Okay. So?”

“I don’t…” Tater hesitates, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Zimmboni… Jack.”

“Alexei,” Jack says, and looks up at him. 

“I’m not knowing you’re liking boys? I see you with girls, and I think… I think you are like that. I don’t… I’m not…” He scrunches up his face in frustration. His next words are in Russian. Jack has no idea what he’s saying, but the words flow rapidly, full of emotion, and when he’s done, he drops his arms to his sides and looks almost defeated. He doesn’t say anything else, or look up at Jack.

Jack presses his lips together, and stands. “Okay, so… I don’t know what you want me to say here, but if you’ve got a problem with it, that’s on you. And if you do, then you should probably go.”

He starts for the door, intending to open it to emphasize his point, but Tater catches his sleeve as he passes. Jack stops, turning to stare at him. Tater stares back, his expression wild, and then he steps forward and crushes his mouth against Jack’s.

Jack goes stock-still, because. Because. What?

Tater is _kissing_ him, and just like that, it’s over. Tater pulls away, looking mildly horrified. 

“I—” Tater starts, looking like he’s about to bolt, and Jack pulls him back in again, kisses him with all the pent-up feeling he’s pushed down for two months. Tater makes a soft sound against Jack’s lips and melts against him. His tongue is hot and slick against Jack’s. His arms wind around Jack’s back, and Jack slides one thigh between Tater’s and yeah, Tater is just as hard as he is.

“Okay,” Jack says, pulling back enough to press his forehead to Tater’s. “Okay, wow.”

This is a terrible idea, is the thing. Jack’s done this before, with a teammate — a liney, even — and he wound up in rehab for his efforts. He knows it’s different now, that Tater isn’t Kent, that he’s years older and it’s not the same. 

The stakes, though — shit.

“Jack,” Tater says, his voice barely more than a whisper. “You don’t know. I’m liking boys all along, but you… I’m liking you? I think you don’t know.”

“I didn’t know,” Jack replies, brushing the tip of his nose against Tater’s. “I didn’t know, but I like you too. I have for a while now.”

“But you…” Tater shakes his head, laughs. “You are so… and I am…”

“Tater… Alexei.” Jack kisses him again, cradles Tater’s face in his hands. “God, I… this is probably a terrible idea, like… we should talk about this.”

“Talking dumb. Kissing better.” Tater smiles, a small, hopeful thing, and Jack’s heart twists in his chest. 

There are so many reasons why they shouldn’t do this, why they should just acknowledge their mutual attraction and back off, think about it for a while before they do anything stupid. Tater exhales then, a long shuddery breath, and stares back at Jack with wide, vulnerable eyes. 

“Fuck it,” Jack says, and kisses him again. He walks Tater back toward the bed, pushes him over onto it. Tater goes, easy, wrapping his arms around Jack’s neck. 

They don’t talk much after that, and Jack’s glad, because he doesn’t want to say anything. He just wants to put his mouth on as much of Tater as he can reach. He tugs Tater’s shirt up and off, and kisses his way down Tater’s chest. He’s lean, leaner than Jack, but he gives as good as he gets, arching up when Jack’s mouth latches onto a nipple and sucks.

He’s lost the ability to English too, and Jack’s gonna take that as a compliment. By the time he gets between Tater’s thighs and licks up the length of his cock, Tater is reduced to moaning incoherently. Jack takes him in deep, lips stretched around him, tongue massaging the foreskin against the head on the upstroke. Tater’s hands are in Jack’s hair, tugging gently, and yeah, that’s working for Jack. He presses a hand down between his own legs, just enough to take the edge off. God, he could come just from this, from the weight of Tater against his tongue and the smell of him and the sounds he’s making.

Tater’s hands tighten in his hair and his words pour out faster, his voice tight. Jack takes it as a sign, works him in even deeper. He breathes, then pushes down, swallows. Tater’s hips buck up as he comes. Jack’s eyes water, but he hangs on, riding the wave of Tater’s orgasm. Tater collapses back against the mattress when he finishes, gasping. Jack forces himself to swallow, grimacing a little. He looks up at Tater after, at the way his chest heaves.

Tater reaches down for him, and Jack lets himself be pulled up. He stretches out on top of Tater, smiling down at him. 

“Good?”

Tater giggles — actually fucking giggles. “I’m not knowing Zimmboni is like, sex god.”

Jack snickers at that, then grinds his hips down against Tater’s thigh, hoping he’ll take the hint. Tater grins at him and rolls them over so quickly Jack sucks air through his teeth in surprise. It’s been a while since he’s been with someone who could match him in strength, and it’s pretty damn hot.

Tater reaches down and wraps a hand around him, starting with light, teasing strokes, not nearly enough to satisfy. He watches Jack’s face carefully, and it’s a full minute before Jack realizes Tater’s doing it on purpose.

“Oh my god, will you get on with it,” Jack groans. 

Tater laughs and kisses him, and tightens his grip. “Say please?”

“Please,” Jack sighs, and pulls him down into another kiss.

Tater speeds up then, long twisting strokes that make Jack’s toes curl and drag embarrassing little sounds from his lips. Tater swallows all of them, practically fucking Jack’s mouth with his tongue, his hand working Jack’s cock like he knows exactly how to get Jack off. Like he’s thought about it before. 

Jack sees sparks behind his eyes when he comes, and goes fuzzy in that way he can never quite manage by himself. Tater wipes his hand off on Jack’s stomach, which makes Jack squirm a little, then settles in against his shoulder.

“Nice?” Tater asks.

“Yeah.” Jack reaches over to pat his shoulder like he would after a good play, and Tater snickers.

“I sleep here, okay?” 

It seems like a rhetorical question, but Jack says, “Yeah,” anyway. He needs to clean the spunk off his stomach, but like, that can wait. Lying here and enjoying the afterglow seems much more important right now.

He wakes up to the sound of the alarm on his phone. Dawn is just barely peeking around the edges of the hotel drapes, and Tater is curled against his back, an arm thrown over Jack’s chest. Jack slides out from under him and turns the alarm off, then sits on the edge of the bed to flip through his messages.

“Time for breakfast?” Tater’s voice is rough from sleep, and it makes Jack smile.

“In an hour. You want to shower first?”

“No, I do walk of shame, shower in my room.”

Jack turns to look at him. “You sure?”

Tater shrugs. “Is fine. No guys awake earlier than Zimmboni.” 

That’s… probably true. Jack hesitates, tangles his hand in the sheet beside him. In the light of dawn, this is seeming like a bad idea again, like maybe they’ve made a mistake, and Jack can feel panic rising. He doesn’t want to make this awkward, but they have a game tonight, and they can’t put it off. He makes himself breathe. “We should talk about this, eh?”

Tater stretches, yawns, and sits up. He leans over to rest his head on Jack’s shoulder. “Is good, yes? We best friends, we hook up, is nice. Easy.”

“What, like friends with benefits?” 

“So nice.” Tater presses a kiss against Jack’s shoulder, then stands. “Maybe later, we want more, want boyfriends. But now, is good.”

Jack exhales, relief washing over him. “Right, take it slow. That’s… yeah, that’s good.”

“Good.” Tater pulls his clothes back on, then puts a finger comically over his lips. “Walk of shame now. Wish me luck?”

Jack stands and crosses to him. He kisses him softly, then steps back and smiles. “Good luck.”

Tater’s smile is as brilliant as Jack has ever seen it. He nods and opens the door, then peeks carefully out before slipping through it.

Jack lies back on the bed for a few minutes, smiling up at the ceiling. He should probably feel a lot more worried about this, like they made a mistake, but. He doesn’t? It feels good, easy. Like it’s just an extension of what they already were to each other.

It feels like the beginning of something good, and yeah. Jack will take it.

******  
The End

**_End Notes:_**  
So Jack is kind of a ho in this? Obviously I don’t claim to know him irl, and the usual puck bunny blogs don’t have any dirt on him. (They all just say he’s really sweet and awkward??? I love him so much???) So I’m just basing that on the guys from my college’s hockey team, who were always hooking up with literally everyone, like all the time. I figure he must have done a little of that in college, even if he managed to keep it on the DL. Anyway, hope you enjoyed! Kudos and comments are always appreciated! 

Also, the characters here really should be using condoms, but I didn’t feel like writing that in this story, so. I’m sure Jack irl is very careful and practices safe sex and all of that. #unproblematicfave

xoxo falcs5eva


End file.
